The First Victim

‘‘Are you trying to warn me, John?’’

‘‘She was, that’s for sure,’’ he said emphatically, eyes wide. The leather soles of his ostrich boots slapped the sidewalk loudly with each long stride. He said to Boldt, ‘‘I’m just trying to tell you to listen up. Either that, or I’d up my Blue Cross if I was you.’’

CHAPTER 8

Melissa accepted the digital camera from Stevie along with two very small tape cartridges and an extra battery. They talked in the corner of KSTV’s news studio while all around the crew prepared for the live broadcast of News Four at Five. As Stevie handed her the camera bag she felt compelled to caution Melissa. ‘‘This is not a license to take matters into your own hands.’’

‘‘I understand.’’

‘‘Don’t be so glib about it.’’

‘‘I understand that you have to say that. You have to protect yourself and the station.’’

‘‘It’s not that at all. It’s you I’m trying to protect.’’

‘‘Your nurturing instinct?’’ Melissa asked.

‘‘You’re to clear everything with me ahead of time.’’

‘‘Of course I am.’’

‘‘I’m not kidding, damn it!’’

‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ the floor director called out. ‘‘Two minutes.’’

Stevie dismissed the person with a brutal wave. She looked at Melissa and saw trouble. ‘‘You’ve got something going, don’t you? I know that look.’’

Melissa shook her head.

‘‘What were you saying about the car wash?’’ Stevie asked.

‘‘Nothing but a hunch. A picture’s worth a thousand words, and I’ve got some good pictures. You’ll see.’’

‘‘When?’’ she persisted.

‘‘At the pay phone, I overheard him mention the graveyard,’’ Melissa whispered.

Stevie suffered a bout of chills. ‘‘Who him? What graveyard?’’

‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ the floor director called out.

‘‘I’m coming!’’ Stevie snapped. When she turned around, Melissa was already leaving the studio. Stevie knew that the thing to do was to go after her, to stop her. Melissa suffered from professional tunnel vision. ‘‘Wait!’’ she called out.

‘‘Sixty seconds!’’ the floor director announced.

‘‘I’ll call you tonight,’’ Melissa mouthed silently, holding her hand to her ear as to a telephone.

‘‘You call me!’’ Stevie demanded, still tempted to abandon the anchor desk and stop her Little Sister. ‘‘I’m going to wait up for that call!’’

An intern held the double doors open for Melissa, who looked back one final time and smiled at Stevie. Again she held her hand to her ear: She would call.

‘‘Thirty seconds! Places, please.’’

Stevie moved reluctantly toward the anchor desk, the pit in her stomach growing ever deeper. If she hadn’t had the interview with the head of the INS lined up, she might have bailed. As it was, she climbed into her anchor chair and reviewed the script while the sound-man wired her. She had a sinking feeling about Melissa that she couldn’t shake: It felt more like a farewell than a good-bye.

The temperature of the studio hovered in the mid-fifties, a concession to the computerized electronics. The floor director reading the shooting script was dressed in a cotton cardigan. Behind the anchor desk things were a little hotter because an intern had delivered Stevie’s latte? with a teaspoon of real sugar instead of sugar substitute. Stevie slid the mug aside combatively and studied her own script one last time. No matter how many times this team prepared for a broadcast, nerves were always taut. News Four at Five’s continuing efforts to keep the number one Nielsen rating in the race for local news viewers had a way of turning up the heat.

Stevie’s male co-anchor, William Cutler, was more intent on his appearance in the monitor than on the script. Billy-Bob, as Stevie referred to him, spent his time at ribbon-cutting ceremonies and lunchtime speaker appearances-appreciating the fees for these extracurricular activities quite a bit more than the news.

She checked herself one last time in the monitor. At thirty-seven, she knew the camera still flattered her. Her hair was highlighted and cut shoulder length, her camisole cut a little low, a little bare, a little tasteless, but just right for the producers and their precious ratings. Those ratings justified a contract that included a Town Car and driver to shuttle her to and from her all-expenses-paid five-bedroom co-op apartment. A promotional arrangement with Nordstrom provided her with a wardrobe, all for a five-second credit in the closing scroll. The creamy pale skin of her surgically enhanced cleavage and the ease with which she carried herself had won her a description of ‘‘overtly sexual,’’ by Newsweek in an article about the decline of standards in local news broadcasts. Whatever the criticism, the ratings remained superb. Only Billy-Bob’s libido threatened to bring them down. There were rumors of high school girls, drugs and all-night parties. If Billy-Bob didn’t keep it zipped, N4@5 was in trouble.

‘‘Fifteen seconds,’’ announced the floor director standing between the two robotic cameras, headphone wires trailing. She held a hand-scrawled notice to remind both anchors of an insert-‘‘page B-36’’- that was not part of their preprinted scripts.

‘‘Hair!’’ William Cutler shouted as he preened.

The studio coiffeuse bounded up on stage as the floor director continued the count. ‘‘Ten seconds!’’ The hairdresser, who carried a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip, dragged a brush carefully across Cutler’s lacquered coif and toyed with an escaped lock.

‘‘You idiot! What are you, a dog groomer? Give me that!’’ Cutler stole the brush away from her and laid the lock down.

‘‘Nine. . clear the set. . eight. .’’ the floor director droned, not the slightest hint of concern in her voice. Pros, every one of them.

The hairdresser stepped off camera as a snarling Cutler inspected himself in the monitor once again. He threw the brush off set at the young hairdresser.

‘‘Four.. three.. two..’’

Stevie’s face lit up as she faced the camera. She typically lived for this moment: Hundreds of thousands of viewers hanging on her every word, but Melissa’s earlier zealousness negated the usual thrill. The prerecorded voice said into her ear, ‘‘And now, Seattle’s most watched news team, Stevie McNeal and William Cutler and News Four at Five.’’

Stevie read from the scrolling text, her smile picture perfect, her tone slightly hoarse and sensual, her eyes soft and locked onto camera two. Sadly, the news was ‘‘there to fill the time between the ads.’’ A mentor had explained that to her when she had been coming up in New York, hoping to make the jump from on-camera reporter to anchor.

Sources close to the illegal alien investigation resulting from a shipping container being fished from Puget Sound say that detectives from the homicide squad of the Seattle Police Department have now questioned at least one of the detainees who survived the passage. The interrogation is said to have revolved around a failed attempt at a plea bargain agreement, that left police with few, if any leads.

File footage rolled of the container’s recovery and the blanketed women being led to emergency vehicles.

In related news, the preliminary autopsy of the first of three women who died in the crossing is said to suggest that the victim died of natural causes, namely malnutrition and dehydration, though it appears uncertain these conditions were anything but the result of negligence on the part of the ship’s captain. Identifying the ship involved in the transport of that container and the ship’s captain are believed to now be the target of the ongoing investigation.

News Four at Five will carry a live interview with Adam Talmadge, regional director of the